


Accident

by somekindofseizure



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Lingerie, MSR, Motels, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somekindofseizure/pseuds/somekindofseizure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt:  "I swear it was an accident."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accident

 

They are fifty-five miles from the nearest mall and there’s nothing in here but a wrinkle-proof skirt suit and a piece of black lingerie.  Not just lingerie.  Racy, come-fuck-me, probably-never-going-to-wear-it lingerie. She looks up at the dusty popcorn ceiling, taking a deep breath and sighing irritably at the smell of drive-thru Taco Bell and rental car on herself.

“There are no pajamas in here,” she says, trying not to whine.

Mulder is sitting at a little motel room table by the window, lights from the parking lot striping his face through vertical blinds.  He lays out photographs of crop circles as he slurps Lo Mein out of a container, of course oblivious to the crisis he’s created.   

“I got exactly what you said.   Suit on the right side of the closet and smallest pile in the second small drawer on the left.” 

“No.  Second small drawer on the _right_ is pajamas.”

“So what did I get?” he asks absently, tracing a finger over some corn stalks. 

She lifts a spaghetti strap and lets it unfold in front of her, feeling the exotic weightlessness of it in her fingers.  She’s only put it on once, in the dressing room.  She had looked at herself in the mirror in front of a purple velvet curtain and walked out with her credit card in hand, seduced by the sly, dim lighting.  Mulder looks up and lowers his chop-sticks, leans his hand against the carton like his life depends on it. 

“I swear it was an accident,” he says slowly.

“How do you _accidentally_ mistake _this_ for pajamas?” she says, rustling it in the air.

“I was in a rush.  You do wear silk pajamas sometimes and it was folded up.  I didn’t see the…”

She slips a finger under the material down the middle of the slip.  Shadowy sheer black chiffon dipped into a deep V all the way to the belly button. Well, she thinks it’s meant to come to the belly button.  On her, it falls a bit lower than that.

“This part?  You didn’t see this part?” she says incredulously. He shakes his head no and gulps.

“Mulder, that whole drawer is…” she trails off, realizing she doesn’t really want to tell him what’s in that drawer.

“Stuff like that?” he asks with his eyebrows raised, a dopey grin crawling across his face.  

“You’re telling me you didn’t look through it,” she says in her don’t-bullshit-me-Mulder voice as she tosses the slip back into the bag.

“I’m a gentleman, Scully.” He seems relieved to have the negligee out of sight.

“This is the last time I let you pack me a bag.”

“Sure, next time I’ll do the autopsy, you get the car ready,” he says with regained composure.

“Do you have anything I can borrow?” she asks.

“I pack light.  Unless you want me to strip and give you this,” he says, rumpling his soft shirt in his hand.  She rolls her eyes and picks up her bag, heading toward the bathroom, pouting at the thought of having to either put these clothes back on or spoil tomorrow’s clean suit while he sits there in a clean t-shirt and jeans.

“Hey, I remembered your shower cap.”

“I’ll be five minutes,” she says curtly, not at all impressed.  

It’s a quick business shower, no razors or wash cloths, and it’s even less than five minutes before she’s standing in a bleachy towel in a cloud of steam.  She peers into the bag and reluctantly takes out the wrinkle-free suit. She shakes her hair loose, catching her reflection in the mirror as she drops her towel.  

Her eyes are rimmed in that perfect damp smudge of mascara she can never replicate on purpose.  Her cheeks are flushed and her lips stained with a thin stubborn layer of Revlon Colorstay.  The rest of her is scrubbed clean, the hairs on her arms sticking up, her nipples stiffening as the steam seeps out of the room.  She looks at herself ten seconds longer than usual, just beyond the obligatory check-up, before she reaches into her bag again.

The room is so tiny that the window next to Mulder has steamed in stripes through the blinds.  Mulder doesn’t notice that, doesn’t notice her as she opens the door.  But as she approaches, her bare calves step into his peripheral vision.  He looks up slowly, eyes following the sway of the silk draped over her hips, her waist.

She paws through the food with one hand, careful not to mess up his rows of photographs.  He bites one side of his bottom lip as he gradually registers the depth of the mesh material down her chest.  

“Now, be a gentleman, Mulder,” she teases as she turns her bare back and sits opposite him with the fried rice in her hand.  She points her toes against the floor as she leans over, raising the point of her chopsticks to her mouth and looking over the pictures spread between them.  “Want to tell me what I’m looking at?”

“You first,” he says, staring at her with the still, wide eyes of a believer.  She smiles broadly.

“Thanks, Mulder.  I thought I was never going to have a chance to wear this.”

 


End file.
